I carefully suggest, “Maybe you should,” but inside, I’m rippling with the comfort of his words. I’ve spent so long hiding myself away that, until Reyn, there was no one who knew the real me.
At that moment, the lobby door flings open and in walks the object of my thoughts. It’s so cheesy and cliché, but it really is like slow-motion, the way he swaggers through the doors. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him, and I have to do a double take, because Reyn…
Reyn is in a tux.
I knew he’d dress up like the rest of us. That’s not a surprise. I was just somehow harboring this vision of him at the age of twelve, dressed in a wrinkled, navy suit at my parents’ anniversary party at the club. That was the last time I saw Reyn dressed up at all. But this?
This is not that grumpy twelve-year-old boy who wouldn’t stop yanking off his tie.
Reyn is clean-shaven, hand stuffed casually into one pocket while the other rakes his hair back. He looks like James Dean met James Bond and decided to knick his style. My stomach flips in the best of ways. I’m taken by the sudden and completely obvious thought:
Oh my god, that’s mine.
He is. That guy there. Yes, the sex-on-legs, well-fitted pants, sharp-featured Adonis who just strutted in here. That’s my boyfriend.
It’s surreal.
When his green eyes find me, they skitter past and then lurch back. I have a fleeting notion that if he busts out the dimples right now, I might actually die, but before the thought can fully form, he does it.
The dimples.
“Well?” Tyson whispers, bumping his knee against mine. “Go on.”
“Huh?” My brain isn’t really operating at maximum capacity when Reyn looks at me like that.
Tyson leans in to quietly explain, “He can’t see your nice dress when you’re trapped behind this table. Go give him a sticker.”
“Right.” I push my chair out and stand. “Good idea.”
Reyn watches me with heavy eyes as I round the table, gaze descending to take in my dress. His eyes climb back up, only to fasten on the charm hanging around my neck. I watch as his throat bobs.
“You look…” His mouth works around several aborted replies before settling on, “Fucking amazing.”
My laugh is all breathy and embarrassing. “You, too.” I emphasize, “Really, really.” Shaking myself out of the stupor, I grab a sticker out of the basket and pull off the back, placing it neatly on his lapel. Getting close, I catch the scent of a fragrance on his jacket.
“That’s a strong choice,” I say.
“What?” He seems distracted but it’s understandable. We’re minutes from either pulling off something epic or going down in flames. Either way, we’ll make history.
“Your cologne,” I elaborate. “Interesting choice.”
He lifts his jacket to his nose and takes a sniff, grimacing. “Caroline’s,” he grouses. “She must have rubbed on me when we were getting in the building.”
I laugh. “Yeah that makes more sense. A little flowery for your style.”
“You guys ready?” Tyson asks, pointing to the time.
“Let’s do this,” I say, feeling brave.
We’re about to head into the gym when Sydney and Fiona slip in the side door. My former friend’s cheeks are red, make-up wiped away, and the bottom of her red dress looks wet and dirty. I’m caught off guard at the sight of her.
For a moment, I’m actually worried about her.
I’m just about to ask her if she’s okay when her gaze darts between me and Reyn. She looks at me and makes this sharp, disgusted sound that settles like ice around my spine.
She mouths, “Delusional,” and I’m thrown by the contempt there.
“Want me to get them a sticker?” Tyson asks, coming up behind me.
Reyn turns to eye them, ultimately shaking his head. “Fuck it.”
Together, the three of us head into the gym. I’m still tossing hurt, confused glances over my shoulder when the DJ cuts the music. Headmaster Collins steps up to the podium and I try to tune out the weird scene with Sydney. I knew she was mad at me, but that was a bit much, even for her.
Up on the stage, I see Aubrey and Emory, glittery crowns perched on their heads. According to Afton, before the traditional announcement of Homecoming King and Queen and their dance is a special presentation.
Or so Collins thinks.
“If you’ll direct your attention to the stage,” the Headmaster says, standing a little too close to the microphone, “the yearbook committee has created a